A Little More Tequila, A Little Less Demon Hunting

– – Chapter One – –

Vows

On the day that little Sammy turned six months old, when Dean was only four, their mother died. Dean hadn't seen first hand what had happened to his mother that night, but he could remember a bit of what had happened to him, his brother, and his father…

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He woke up to a sudden loud roaring, an intense blast of heat…and his father yelling for his mother. Dean flew out of his bed and into the hallway, calling for his daddy. He could feel the fire, an intense heat like he had never felt before. He could see the bright colors of it lighting up the end of the hallway. He could hear the loud, horrible noise of flames, and he could practically taste the smoke.

Suddenly, his dad emerged from his brother's nursery, put Sammy in his arms, and told him to "take your brother outside."

Dean did what his Dad had told him to do, carrying Sam quickly and carefully out the front door. He ran down the steps and onto their lawn, looking up at the house and wondering where his daddy was. As he stood and waited, Sam started to squirm around in his arms and cry, and Dean held him close, trying to calm him by bouncing him up and down gently. When it didn't work, Dean carried Sam away from the house and toward the street, away from the noise and the heat and the light.

Suddenly, two upstairs windows blew outward as something inside the house exploded, and flames escaped out into the night, shattering glass and scattering it over the lawn where Dean had been standing mere moments ago.

Dean held on tighter to Sam as people from the neighboring houses began pouring out into the street, drawn out by the noise. A woman Dean didn't know approached him and bent down, asking him if he was okay. Dean told her his mommy and daddy were still inside, and when she reached out to take Sam from his small arms, he turned away from her, saying he wanted his mommy. She didn't try to touch them again, but she did stay next to him, waiting with them.

Fire trucks came, sirens blaring, scattering onlookers. A giant man in a yellow suit came over to them, and the woman told him their parents were still inside. As firefighters began fighting the blaze, a group running inside to find their parents, Dean didn't move from his spot. He held Sam close, fighting his own urge to join his brother in crying.

Finally, after what felt like hours to Dean, the men came out of the house, carrying his father.

His mother never made it out of the house.

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After that, things were a blur. He remembered a hospital. His daddy was in a bed, many burns covering his body. He asked his dad where his mommy was, why she hadn't come out of the house, if someone had brought her out after they left. His dad told him that his mommy was gone and she was never coming back.

Dean remembered being sent to stay with the woman who had stood with them the night of the fire. Some men told him that she was a "foster mother" and that she had offered to take care of Dean and his brother while their father was healing in the hospital because they didn't have any relatives to stay with.

During those few weeks, Dean didn't leave his brother's side. He refused to play with any of the other kids in the house or to talk to anyone. He spent his time with Sam, watching him, playing with him, keeping him smiling and happy. Looking back on it now, Dean realized that, even then, he had felt that, by handing Sam to him, his father had given up his role of father to him, and he had willingly accepted the role of caretaker to his little brother. As his father healed physically, but fell apart mentally and emotionally, he stuck by Sam's side.

Dean visited his father at the hospital a few times during his stay with the woman, and his father never said a word to him, never even looked at him. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, a lost and broken look on his face. Dean would stay until the woman came in and told him it was time to leave. He would leave quietly with her and go back to her house, where he would seek out his brother and try his best to make him smile and laugh.

Dean didn't hate the place. The woman was nice to them, and the kids left him and Sam alone. But Dean missed his mommy and daddy. Most nights he would cry silently to himself, watching his brother sleep silently in his crib. He would fall asleep only when the sound of Sam's slow, steady breathing finally lulled him off.

Dean didn't know what would happen when his daddy got better, and he was scared.

But eventually, his dad healed.

He was released from the hospital, and he took himself and his two sons far away from Lawrence, Kansas, and they never looked back.

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For the first few months, things were rough but bearable. They stayed in a number of different motels as their dad searched for a place to live and a job. He cared for his sons – fed them, kept them clothed, gave them a roof to sleep under. But he rarely talked to them, and when he did it was in the form of yelling. Aside from going out to shop, they never left their hotel. Sam slept in a pile of blankets on the floor, and more often than not Dean found himself crawling out of his bed and onto the floor to sleep next to him, sometimes just to lie there and watch him quietly.

Dean didn't talk much either, and when he did it was usually to Sam. When he talked to his dad, it was to ask him where they were going next, or when they could go out because they hadn't eaten in awhile and Sam needed milk and diapers. Usually his father would not respond to him, and he would only go out when Sam got hungry or wet and started to cry, refusing to stop, and he couldn't handle "the damn racket."

A few months after their mother's death, and many hotels later, John taught Dean how to take care of Sam: how to feed him, change him, and bathe him. He didn't teach him how to play with him or make him laugh or know when he needed food, but Dean already knew all of that. Eventually, his father stopped doing anything, and by Dean's fifth birthday, he found himself caring for Sam all the time. He accepted the role and got very good at it. He was the only one who could make Sam smile and laugh…the only one who even tried to make Sam smile and laugh.

He was the one who taught Sam to walk. A month before Sam turned one, he took his first steps and fell giggling into Dean's arms, and Dean held his brother close and beamed, and for the first time since the accident, he laughed. He looked at his daddy, laughing as he asked him if he had seen.

His father didn't move. He continued to stare at the ceiling and he didn't say a word.

And that was when Dean knew that things were not okay.

Dean missed his mommy: how she would tuck him in at night, kiss him, hold him close when he woke up crying from nightmares. He hadn't cried since his dad had taken him and Sam away from their foster house. His daddy hadn't cried, and he wanted so much to be like his daddy. When his dad didn't talk to him about what happened that night, he hadn't asked because he didn't want to upset him.

But now, Dean watched Sam toddle across the room toward his dad and bang his little fists on his bed, silently asking his daddy to look at him, to see what he had done, and Dean saw his dad turn away toward the wall and ignore him. He saw Sam look puzzled as he tried to reach out to his dad, but he was too small and his arms fell short. He fell down with a soft plop and began to cry, and Dean walked over and picked him up. He sat down on his bed and bounced Sam on his knee, causing him to start giggling. Dean kept bouncing Sam and looked toward his father's back, and he felt tears sting his eyes, and suddenly, though his dad was right there, Dean felt more than he had before that he and Sam were alone in the world and his father had died along with his mother.

When Dean put Sam to "bed" that night, he turned the light off and his father didn't protest. Dean didn't even get in his own bed that night. He crawled onto the floor next to Sam and watched him fall asleep, his little fist curled around his blanket, his thumb in his mouth. He watched as his breathing slowed, his chest gently rising and falling, breath escaping softly from his mouth.

Suddenly, Dean heard the bed creak, and he turned his head to watch his father get up from the bed. His heart rose, then quickly fell as his father simply walked to the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

He turned back to Sammy, sleeping softly, and finally, Dean began to cry. Softly at first, then louder. He tried to quiet himself down, not wanting to wake up Sam, but as his cries turned to gentle sobs, he felt Sam shift next to him and saw him open his eyes. Dean stopped crying, hoping that Sam wouldn't decide to join him. His father didn't like it when Sam cried. It made him yell.

He sniffed, and when Sam's lip trembled, Dean reached out and pulled his brother into a hug, holding him close. He felt Sam curl up next to him, his hand fisting in his shirt, holding on to him tightly, and tears fell down Dean's cheeks again. His body gently shook as he tried not to make a sound, afraid of what his dad would do if he found him crying. Thankfully, Sam did not make a sound. He simply lay there in his arms as Dean cried.

Finally, the tears slowed down and stopped, and suddenly Dean was exhausted. He continued to hold Sam close to him, afraid to let go of the only thing he had in the world. He fell asleep to the quiet sound of Sam's gentle breathing.

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The next day, Dean woke up to Sam crying loudly next to him and his stomach growling painfully. Dean went to the dresser, looking for the can of formula, and he was upset to find that the last can they had was empty. His father stirred on his bed, and told him loudly to "stop that damn crying." Dean trembled as he approached his father's bed. He told him that they had no formula…that they had no food, and he hadn't eaten in a long time. His dad got up angrily and stormed off to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Dean went over to Sam and picked him up gently. He tried everything he knew to make him quiet, and nothing worked. Dean knew it had been a long time since Sam had last eaten, feeling the effects of hunger himself.

Finally, his dad came out of the bathroom and took them out to get more formula, diapers, and some food. They took it back to their hotel, and after Dean had fed and changed Sam and put him down to wander around the room and play with the few toys Dean had been able to sneak into their cart over the past few months (his dad hardly ever noticed anything anymore), Dean sat down to eat his food. His father had barely touched what he'd gotten, and he was once again lying down, staring at the ceiling. When Dean had eaten what he wanted, he decided to ask his dad the one thing he had desperately wanted to ask him for a long time, but had been too afraid to ask before last night, when Sam had, somehow, given him the courage he needed.

"Daddy, why did Mommy die?"

Dean watched, trembling slightly, as his father sat up slowly, a look of surprise on his face.

"What?" he asked.

"Why…why did Mommy die?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly.

For a brief moment, Dean thought his father might actually answer him when he paused and didn't look away. Then, Dean's heart fell when his father turned away from him and lay back down to turn his gaze once more to the ceiling. He didn't say a word.

"Daddy?" Dean inquired quietly. "Daddy…why did Mommy-"

"Be quiet, Dean."

Dean felt tears form in his eyes. "Daddy…why won't you talk to me? Daddy? Do you hate me?" Dean started to cry softly. It was the first time he had cried in front of his father since the night his mother died.

Suddenly, his dad shot up in bed and climbed off, moving toward Dean faster than Dean had seen him move in a long time. He grabbed Dean's arms and squeezed them harshly. Dean gasped at the sudden and painful contact.

"Daddy-"

"Stop crying, Dean. You're a big boy now. Big boys don't cry."

But Dean couldn't help it. His father was grasping his arms so tightly. "Daddy, stop," Dean begged, tears flowing harder.

It only made his father hold on tighter. "Stop it!" he screamed. "Stop your crying!" He shook him hard, his hands twisting Dean's arms painfully.

"Daddy…."

Sam started to cry.

Suddenly, his dad let out a growl and shoved Dean away from him hard. Thankfully, Dean was sitting on the bed, and he feel back onto the mattress, rubbing his arms and crying quietly. His dad stalked off toward the door and put on his shoes, ignoring Sam's cries. He reached for his coat lying on the chair, and Dean got up quietly, still holding his arms close to his chest, and moved toward his own shoes, knowing that when Dad got dressed it meant they were going out.

But this time, his dad turned to him, his face contorted into a rage Dean had never seen before. He pointed his finger at him. "You stay here," he said harshly. "Don't you dare leave this room."

Dean nodded, not knowing what else to do. His dad had never left them alone before.

His father opened the door and slammed it loudly behind him.

Dean stared at the closed door, wondering what had just happened. Why was his daddy leaving them alone? Was he going to come back? Did he not want them anymore? Did he do something wrong? Why didn't his daddy love him?

He was pulled out of his thoughts by a gentle tug on his pants leg, and he looked down to see Sam tugging gently on his pants, his face red, tears pouring from his eyes. Dean felt his heart break, and he sat down hard on the floor, pulled his brother into his lap, and held him as they both cried for the mother they had lost and the father that didn't love them.

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John returned late in the morning. Dean was asleep on the floor next to Sam, and he rubbed at his eyes when the door opened and was closed loudly. It was dark in the room, and the clock on the table said 3. He looked toward the door.

"Daddy?"

" 'Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.' Do you ever shut the fuck up?"

Dean flinched when his father mimicked his voice harshly. He had never heard his father talk to him this way.

"Daddy, what's wrong?"

" 'What's wrong?' he says. What isn't wrong? Everything's wrong."

Dean heard his father put something down on the dresser. He heard a loud crash, followed by a cry of "Shit! Stupid fucking chair!" He heard his father stumble toward his bed and flick the light on. Dean saw his dad sitting on the bed, and Dean was afraid when he saw a large purple bump on his face, much like the ones that were forming on Dean's arms. He was waving slowly back and forth like he was dizzy, and he was holding a bottle in his hand. He drank from the bottle, leaning his head back and finishing it. He slammed the bottle down loudly on the table between the two beds.

"What are you staring at?" he asked loudly, glaring at Dean.

Dean was afraid to speak. He didn't know what was going on, why his dad was acting so funny.

"Well, finally got you to shut up, didn't I?"

Dean watched as his father stood up, waving around as he walked clumsily toward the dresser. He opened up the bag and pulled out another bottle like the one he had just finished. He opened it up with something from the bag and took a large swig of it, downing the entire bottle without stopping. He put it down on the dresser and grabbed another one, opening it up and heading back toward his bed. He sat down and put the bottle on the table, almost knocking it over as he reached down to pull his shoe off.

Dean was scared.

"Daddy, are you okay?" he asked quietly.

His dad looked up at him, and Dean was scared at the look he saw in his eyes, a look that he could practically feel.

"Why don't you do Daddy a favor, Dean?" he asked, a fake sweetness in his voice. "Why don't you just shut the fuck up and go to sleep? Does that sound like fun?"

Dean's lip trembled, and he tried hard not to cry. He nodded slowly at his father and lay back down on the floor, trembling slightly as he turned away and closed his eyes, trying to banish the look he had seen in his father's eyes from his mind. He lay there quietly, wondering what his father was going to do. He heard more sloshing and assumed his father was still drinking from his bottle.

Finally, he heard a clunk as the bottle was put down on the table, and as the light turned off and the bed creaked, he heard his father say, "So fucking needy."

Dean tried hard not to cry as he lay there in the dark, listening to his father mumble more words he had never heard before…words he never wanted to hear again. Finally, his father started snoring loudly. Rubbing gently at his sore arms, Dean fell into a restless sleep, not knowing that this was only the first of many times that his father would act this way.

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Dean awoke the next morning to the sound of his father making a strange noise in the bathroom. He got up and shuffled quietly to the bathroom, leaning his head against the door and listening. He remained quiet, and finally the noise stopped. He heard the sink running and he waited.

When the door opened, he saw his father stop and look down at him. Dean hoped that he was okay now. That whatever had happened to him before, whatever had made him act the way he had, was gone.

"What the fuck are you doing up?" he slurred.

Dean flinched at the anger in his voice. What was wrong with him?

"You sounded sick, Daddy."

"Of course I'm not sick, you little shit. Go back to sleep."

Dean stood there, frozen in shock.

"Did you not hear me, Dean? I said GO BACK TO SLEEP!" he yelled.

Dean turned away quickly at the sound of his father yelling, and he heard Sam start crying.

"Stupid brat."

Suddenly, his father grabbed him by the arm and dragged him harshly back toward Sam. Dean tried to match his father's fast gait, but he stumbled. His father yanked him up off the ground by his arm, carried him over to where Sam lay, and dropped him down hard next to his brother. Dean cried out as his fell on his arm and felt pain shoot up it.

"Shut your brother up," he ordered him.

Dean tried to reach out for Sam, but it hurt to move his arm, and he whimpered and held it closer.

"SHUT HIM UP!" he yelled, and Sam only cried harder.

Without warning, Dean watched in shock as his father reached down and slapped Sam hard across the face. Dean cried out in horror as Sam started wailing and his father stood back up, chest heaving.

Suddenly, Dean felt angry. Angrier than he could ever remember feeling. He lashed out at his father with his good arm and hit him in his leg as hard as he could.

It was the first and last time he would hit his father.

John looked surprised, and Dean reached out to do it again, when suddenly he felt himself leave the ground. His dad lifted him up and tossed him on the bed, yelling at him for hitting him, calling him names he'd never heard before. Dean cried when his father hit him hard in the stomach, and he doubled over, turning away from his father. He yelled at him to shut up, to stop his crying, and he slapped him in the face. Dean only cried harder, not understanding what was happening, why his father was hurting him and yelling at him.

He turned Dean over on his stomach.

"I'll teach you a lesson, boy," he growled, and he started spanking him. Dean cried into the blanket as his father hit him, again and again, and Dean prayed to God, to whoever would listen, for it to stop.

Finally, it did. His father stopped hitting him, let go of his arm, and got off the bed, stomping toward the bathroom and slamming the door.

Dean could only lie there. He lay there until the tears finally stopped, until Sam quieted down and fell asleep. He lay in bed, breathing heavily, wincing as each breath hurt his stomach. He could feel a sting on his face and his bottom from where his father had spanked him, and a throbbing in his arm from where he had hit the floor.

Finally, the pain settled into a gentle throbbing. It hurt to move, so he didn't. He lay there in that bed for a long time, long after his father came back into the room, lay down on his bed, and turned off the light. He lay there for a long time and thought about his mother holding him gently, rocking him back to sleep. Finally, he drifted off to sleep, visions of his dad hitting his tiny, defenseless brother haunting his dreams. He awoke hours later to find his brother standing next to his bed. Sam's hand was gently hitting him on the head, and his lips were trembling, like he was about to cry. He had an imploring, sad look in his eyes, and Dean was scared to see a large red imprint of his father's hand forming on his brother's small face.

That day, he aged more than any child should ever have to. He was no longer five years old. He was the big brother, and he had an important job to do.

He pulled Sam up on the bed and held him, ignoring the pain in his chest and his arm, and he gently rocked him back and forth, like his mother used to do to him. He cried silently, his tears dropping onto Sam's shaggy hair.

"It's okay, Sammy. Everythin's gonna be okay. I'm gonna take care of you."

And that day, he vowed to make sure his brother had everything he needed. He vowed to keep his brother from ever having to cry again. He vowed to never let Sam be in the pain he was in at the moment; to never let the bruises he could see on his arms and feel on his chest ever be on his brother. To never let his father touch his brother the way he had last night ever again. Dean vowed to protect his brother at all costs.

Even his own.

TBC…

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As always, reviews are very much appreciated. Expect chapter two in a few days. :-)